


We're On Our Way

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Autistic Character, Autistic Fitz, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Stargazing, meltdowns, prompt collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: Well, oh, it seems like you're a lot like me. Dug yourself into places you never thought you would be. But don't you fret, and don't you mind, the only constant is change, and you never know what you'll find.Platonic prompt collectionRatings and warnings will be at the top of each chapter





	1. Mayfitz + stargazing

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "I just want to be close to someone" + mayfitz
> 
> rating: g

She means it to be a glare, but she takes in his clammy skin, the blanket over his shoulders, the haunted look about his eye, and her gaze softens. He shifts in the doorway, staring down at the floor.

“Did you need something, Fitz?” she asks. Her voice feels musty, if that’s possible. She hasn’t spoken to anyone all day.

Fitz swallows, and shakes his head. He finally looks up, staring out at the darkened sky through the windshield of the Bus. He looks like he’s looking for something.

She’s not sure what he’s hoping to find. It’s just blue-black sky, a smattering of stars. Even the moon is wispy, mostly absent. Still, she gives a little nod at the seat next to her.

Fitz shuffles forward, closes the door behind him, and then stops. She can hear him blow out a breath before he slumps into the seat, pulling the blanket tighter around him. Hunched like that, he’s shorter than her. It’s not often she sees other people as small.

She’s not sure why he’s here. Why he’s sought her out, of all people. She scares him, she knows. Some of that is on purpose. She’s quiet and sharp in all the wrong places. But maybe that’s what he needs right now.

He sits, and he stares. Stares like there’s a message hidden in the stars’ wavering light, like maybe the ocean, far beneath them, is singing something just for him, something he can only just hear. He’s concentrating hard—brows furrowed, lips pinched, eyes pleading above bruised-looking flesh. But whatever he’s searching for, he hasn’t found it. She wants to ask him the last time he slept. She doesn’t.

“You’re not going to find anything thinking that hard about it,” she says.

He jumps a little, and turns to her like maybe he forgot she was there.

“What?” he asks, and he sounds musty too.

She turns back to the glass and the void beyond. “If you’re looking for the message, you’re not going to find it. The sky isn’t that kind of teacher.”

He swallows, and nods.

“I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.”

He looks at her for a moment longer before his head drops. He curls in on himself a fragment more.

“Just wanted to be close to someone,” he says, so quiet she almost misses it.

She wants to ask why he didn’t go to one of the others. Simmons, who he’s normally attached to at the hip. Skye, who anyone can see he’s growing to love. Even Coulson would be better for something like this.

He seems to see the question on her face, because he chews on his answer before he says, “You remind me of my mum.” He seems shy, nervous. It’s almost endearing. “Not the … not the scary parts.” Okay, less endearing. “But she just … She can be quiet, you know? But … But you never feel alone when you’re with her.” He studies her face, wondering if that was the wrong thing to say, then shrugs and looks away.

She lets the concept sit in her throat. She knows what it’s like to be alone in a crowded room. Embraced and alone. Alone down to her bone marrow. There’s only so much you can do to help that, but if, for him, one of those things is her … She doesn’t know why it would be. She doesn’t know what he sees in her that makes him feel that way. But if it is, then she’ll be there.

She swallows, and nods. She turns back to the night.

“Xīn xiù,” she says, pointing.

He follows her finger, blinking out into the inky blackness. “What?”

“The Heart mansion,” she explains, letting her hand drop. “Heart of the Azure Dragon.”

He squints. He doesn’t seem to find the constellation, but he nods anyway.

She lets the words press against the backs of her lips before she says, just the slimmest bit uncertain, “My father always said that if I kept my heart that big, I could also see the whole world.”

Something softens on Fitz’s face. He glances at her, then looks fully. He isn’t the most guarded person, but he keeps little parts of himself hidden away, too afraid for anyone to see. This is maybe the most open she’s ever seen him. “Did you?” he asks.

“I’ve seen enough of it,” she says.

His lips twist. That wasn’t what he was asking. But he turns back to the sky and asks, “What are the other ones?”

She tells him. And for the time, she doesn’t feel so alone.


	2. Maysimmons + Stargazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt asked for a kind of sequel to the mayfitz one, where may and jemma discuss and bond over constellations 
> 
> rating: g

She finds her on the roof.

Which is not something May could have said only a few months ago, when the Bus was their one and only home. If you wanted to see the sky, you looked out the window. If you wanted to get some fresh air … Well. No real option for that.

The Playground isn’t much better, but there are a few windows. There’s a roof. They’re advised not to go outside, not unless they have permission and log it. But the roof is a safe spot. Away from prying eyes, where you sometimes get to feel the sun on your skin.

Now it’s dark, and getting cold.

Jemma is sitting in the far corner, pressed up against the raised edge. She doesn’t have her legs over it—smart girl—but is sitting the other way, using it as a backrest. Her gaze is fixed up at the expanse above.

May lets the door close loudly, but Jemma doesn’t look over. She takes a few steps forward, then calls, “Thought I’d find you packing.”

Jemma does look at her, but it takes a few seconds, like she doesn’t want to tear her eyes away from the sky for even a moment. Her face is carefully blank, and she blinks slowly before she shrugs.

“I’ll finish later.”

Well, that’s unlike her.

May watches. Jemma gives her another few seconds of eye contact, then tilts her head back up.

The hard texture of the roof scratches under her shoes as she makes her way closer to Jemma. She stalls a few feet away, and looks up.

With the light pollution, it’s hard to see too many stars. May misses that about always being in the Bus, high above cities and people and streetlights. She can still make out a decent lot, but it’s not quite the same.

She hears Jemma take in a shaky breath. She waits for the sigh out, but it’s silent.

May turns and sits.

She doesn’t look up at the sky. She tilts her head towards Jemma and studies the way the other woman whisks her thumbs over her hands.

“If you need me, I’m a call away.”

Jemma swallows. “I won’t jeopardize the mission.”

“I’m not concerned about that.” She waits for Jemma to look at her, but she doesn’t. “I’m concerned about you.”

“No need for that,” Jemma says. Quiet. Docile. No real fight.

May examines the side of her face. She looks for trembling lips, a clenched jaw, the beginnings of tears. There’s nothing. Just a clean and simple resignation.

Unable to stomach the sight, May turns to the stars.

“Your apartment has a balcony,” May says.

Jemma hums.

“It’s close to the heart of the city, but you might be able to see more than you can from here.”

The stars keep on, steady. They could have died eons ago, May thinks, and she wouldn’t know. But here she is, looking at the ghosts.

May raises a finger, and points to a cluster. “What’s that one?”

Jemma lets out the quietest sigh. “You know what it is.”

“I’ve forgotten.”

“… Chamaeleon.”

May nods slowly, like she didn’t know. “Brightest star?”

“Alpha Chamaeleontis.”

“Named by?”

Jemma sighs again, but doesn’t turn to her. “Why are you doing this?”

“Answer the question.”

“… Keyser and de Houtman, 1603.”

May shifts her finger. “And that one?”

“Musca. The fly. Alpha Muscae. 1603, published in _Uranometria_.”

They go on like this for a while, May pointing to a star and Jemma listing relevant facts. Slowly, she seems to unwind from the tight coil she’s been keeping herself in. May leans into her, just a bit, and Jemma slumps and rests her head on May’s shoulder. She angles her head down and closes her eyes.

“Which one’s your favorite?” May asks, one final question.

Jemma takes only a second to think. “Proxima Centauri.”

May squints into the darkness. “Where’s that?”

“You can’t see it.”

Though she has a feeling where this is going, May asks anyway, “Why is that your favorite?”

She can feel Jemma’s throat bob in a swallow before she answers. “It’s the closest star to Earth.” It escapes almost in a whisper. “But you look right past it.”

May twists her arm and uncurls her fingers. Her palm lies up and open.

Slowly, Jemma takes her hand.


	3. Mayfitz + Meltdowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating: G 
> 
> prompt: autistic fitz + may comforting him after a meltdown

Some of it is the way he says it. Like it’s being forced out from behind his ribs, like something has a vice on his lungs and it’s pushing the words out of him without the permission of his throat and mouth. There’s almost a wheeze to it. A fight that he’s losing. Some sort of desperation.

Some of it is the way he words it. “I’m getting food. I’ll be back later.” No promises on when he’ll be back. No offers to bring some back for the rest of them. No mention of where exactly he’s getting the food. No invitation for anyone else to join him. It’s brusque, which could be expected of him right now, sure. But it’s also calculated.

Some of it is how he was before. She’s been watching him slowly crumble in his seat for the last seventeen minutes. The slow decent as he rocks back and forth as unnoticeably as he can. The way he clenches his trembling fingers, his forearms jumping with the effort to keep them still. The way his skin dimples as he sucks on the inside of his bottom lip, desperate to sooth himself.

So, she saw it coming. Sees it coming, what’s about to happen. What he’s really going to do. He’s not after food. She doesn’t think any of them could eat right now, even him. But he stands, and says, “I’m getting food. I’ll be back later” and he’s out the door before any of them can respond.

Not that Simmons would have. May isn’t sure she even heard him, staring at the floor like she is. Coulson nods in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t look up from what he’s reading to see that Fitz has already left the room.

Which leaves May.

She’s slipping out the door before it’s fully closed behind him.

The hospital hallways are bright. Even the light feels antiseptic, somehow. Like when it touches your skin it goes about the work of scrubbing you down, leaving you raw and sterile. It’s hard not to choke on it.

He doesn’t really seem to know where he’s going. He’s not moving toward a destination, that much is clear. Just walking. Stalking, more like. Haunting down the hallways.

She follows him until they reach a quieter wing of the hospital. There are less people here, fewer occupied beds, fewer staff. For a moment she wonders if she was wrong, if he’s trying to find Skye, trying to find the operating room. But then he ducks into an empty patient room, and she knows what’s going to happen next.

She can only hear the muffled scream because she’s right before the door. The sound gives her the opportunity to slip in, and for a moment she just watches.

Fitz is hunched over one of the beds like a man wounded, pillow held to his face, probably pressed right up against his mouth with how well it’s covering the sound. His shirt stretches taunt over his back as he hunches further, his muscles quivering with the prolonged effort of the yell that rips from his throat. It’s something feral. Hurt. Scared.

Finally, his breath runs out, and he hurls the pillow down onto the neatly made bed, gasping air back into his lungs.

May wonders if that’s going to be all of it. If he’s gotten the chaotic tide out of his system. The energy that sometimes demands expulsion.

He puts his hands on the bed and breathes raggedly, shoulders rising and falling and rising and falling and shaking. All of him, every bit, shaking. Down to the atoms.

She’s about to announce herself. It’s better he knows she’s here. Have someone to help guide him back toward some level of balance. She thinks that maybe that was the end of it.

And then his arm slams into the bed. Just an open-fisted slap. A pitiful sort of noise, nothing that suits the occasion. There’s a breath of a pause. And then he does it again. And again. And his hands are in fists and he’s beating them into the thin mattress, breath catching and choking and wet. There’s something rumbling in his chest but it’s more scared than angry, and May knew if she could see his face there’d be tears in his eyes.

May takes a step forward.

“Fitz.”

He lets out a sound. A sound like a sob through a closed mouth and a runny nose. His hands come up to find his hair, and he curls forward until his face is pressed against the sheets. His arms slide until they’re covering his head, protective.

He drops hard to his knees, and the thud of his kneecaps hitting the ground moves like a drumbeat.

“Fitz,” she says again.  

His shoulders hitch, but she can’t hear anything. Doesn’t see him move again.

She walks around the room and takes a seat on the bed on the other side of the night stand, scoots up against the headrest so she’s not facing him directly, nonthreatening. He hasn’t looked up at the sound of her footsteps moving past him. Hasn’t really acknowledged her at all. She’s okay with that. She’ll do the talking. It’s not her strong suit, but she’ll try, for him.

“We’re all scared right now,” she says. “I don’t want you to feel alone in that. We might show it in different ways, but we are.”

He doesn’t move.

“Whatever’s coming, we’re going to make it through.”

She doesn’t say her name. She doesn’t say Skye. Because, honestly? She doesn’t know. That she’ll be okay. That she’s going to get back up after this. She’s seen agents fight through more and die from less. There’s no way of knowing, and she’s not going to make him a promise she can’t keep.

“You’re not going through this alone.”

His arms move, hesitant. And then, slowly, unfurl from around his head. “I know,” he says, quiet, muffled against the mattress. “But i-i-it- it—”

His arms move back.

She waits, and then prods, just as quiet, “What, Fitz?”

He mumbles something into the sheets.

She pauses a few moments to see if she’ll process it, but she doesn’t. “What?”

One arm slams down onto the bed, and she almost startles. The other keeps a grip on his hair as he finally looks up, eyes red, cheeks wet, and says, “It should have been me.”

She swallows. “Fitz.”

“It- Don’t- Don’t you—” His mouth works around the words, and he looks away from her. “Don’t you say I’m wrong.”

She shakes her head, trying to find the right way to phrase it, but he continues.

“I let her go in there.” His finger jabs onto the mattress. “I let her go in there and- and I- I should’ve gone, _I_ should have, not- she shouldn’t have—” He presses his lips together, eyes clenching shut. His chin trembles. He lets out a breath. “It should have been me.”

“It shouldn’t have been anyone,” she says, maybe harsher than she feels is necessary. His eyes find her. “It’s not an ‘either/or’ situation. Neither of you should have been in that position. Neither of you should have been forced to make the choice. And here, now, after the fact, is not the time to wonder if you chose wrong. It wasn’t a choice to begin with.”

His gaze blares into her. He’s fighting it, in his head. Trying to think of reasons why she’s wrong. Why he’s at fault. She knows the feeling.

“Fitz, this isn’t your fault. It’s not … not _yours_. Okay?”

He stares. He stares and then raises an arm to smear tears with the back of his wrist. He looks at her again. “Not yours, either.”

So, he caught her. For the first time, she looks away. Closes her eyes. Looks back. This isn’t about her.

“You’re right,” she says. “It’s _his_. And we’re gonna make damn sure he doesn’t forget it.”

He takes a shaky inhale, and lets it go slow, like maybe this was exactly the sort of catharsis he was looking for. The absolution. He looks like he’s considering it. That maybe, _maybe_ this isn’t his fault. That he doesn’t have to take all the blame.

“If …” His bottom lip dimples. “If I could switch places with her—”

“I know,” she says. “Me too.”

Slowly, he rises from the floor, and scoots onto the bed, rubbing his knees. They’re probably going to bruise, he’s lucky he didn’t do damage.

“Fitz …”

He looks up at her.

But she’s not sure what she wants to say.

She pulls in a breath, and takes in his face. He’s so new at this. He’s seen so much already but he’s so new, fresh-faced at all the things that May learned not to let break her long ago. She’s maybe not the best role model, she thinks. He’s how a person should be. Horrorstruck at all the bad in the world. Aghast at the things people are willing to do to each other. She could learn something from him. Some of the things she might have forgotten. The wonder and the fear.

She swallows and looks down. They’re both waiting for her to say something.

Her gaze draws up to meet him.

“There won’t be a next time.”

She doesn’t want to make this promise. Making promises scares her more than maybe anything. But god— _god_ —she wants to keep this one more than anything else. That he’s not going to be caught here again, in the shame, in the guilt, in the remembering. Maybe, if she’s smart, if she’s lucky, if she’s strong, she’ll keep him from this again.

He can see her turmoil, and he looks away from it. But he nods.

That’ll have to do for now.

She stands, and this time he watches her as she crosses the room and makes her way into the attached bathroom. It’s small, nothing besides the basics, but it has a clean hand towel and a running tap, which is all she needs. She soaks the towel and then squeezes it out in the sink. He’s still watching her curiously as she returns to the room and stops in front of him.

He’s not a child. He’s younger than her by a good margin, but he’s still a grown man, perfectly capable of wiping off his own face. Still, she hesitates for just long enough that he notices before she hands him the wet towel.

He holds it to his face for a moment before he begins wiping, and then blows his nose into it as she awkwardly stares at the plain art adorning the walls. He crumples it up and looks around, but she takes it from him to toss into the hamper in the bathroom.

He looks lost when she reenters, staring down at his twiddling fingers.

“If you’re not ready to go back, we can stay for a while.”

After a moment, he nods. And then scoots over. Just a couple of inches, but the intention is clear.

She takes a seat next to him, but she’s not sure what he wants. Does he want her to reach out to him? She’s not much of a physical comfort type of person. If he wants to talk, he hasn’t made an indication of it.

But just sitting there, something in him seems to unwind. He takes a deep breath and releases it slow, shoulders slumping. He takes another. He might be leaning into her a bit, but it’s hard to tell.

Maybe her being there is all he wanted.

“Not alone,” he says, on the quietest breath, and she thinks she wasn’t meant to hear it.

But still, she responds, “Not anymore.” And inside, she thinks, _Never again. Not if I can help it._

She doesn’t say it out loud, but he looks at her like he heard it all the same. He watches her, and then he nods. Like he knows. That this promise she’s made inside her head is enough to comfort him.

And maybe it is. Maybe them believing it is enough.

God, let it be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> prompt me on tumblr! @ buckysbears


End file.
